Home > The Gentleman’s Guide to Getting Lucky(9)

The Gentleman’s Guide to Getting Lucky(9)
Author: Mackenzi Lee

“I don’t know!” I say it so loud that a gull takes flight from where it’s pecking about the sea grass sprouting up between the rocks. “I just can’t get my head on straight.”

“Can you give me a bit more than that?”

I really, really do not want to talk about this. But it’s Percy. I rake my hands through my hair, ignoring the pull at my burns. “Love and sex have been separate things for me for so long because they had to be,” I say. “I was almost always with someone because I was bored and hated myself and it was something to do that wasn’t thinking about either of those things. I’ve never been with anyone because I actually loved them and wanted to be something together. So this has never required any sort of emotional component, and I don’t know how to do that.”

“But we’ve done all that legwork, haven’t we?” He folds his arms around his knees. “We know how we feel about each other.”

34

 

“We know how we feel now,” I say. “But what about in a few months when I’ve got no job and I’ve wrecked my sobriety and I’m lazy and mean and won’t get out of bed and you can’t stand to be around me because I’m just the helpless ass who follows you around and weighs you down?”

He tips his head backward, the ghost of a smile passing over his lips. “So this is about London.”

“No,” I say defensively, then add, “What about London?”

“When I started talking about where we were going next at breakfast the other morning. I had a sense you were panicking.”

“Well, I wasn’t then.”

“Retroactive panic counts.”

I press my fingernails hard into my scalp, the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Maybe I was panicking. Maybe I am. Because give it a year. Or ten years. Or a life. Because I just don’t think I can do it, Perce. I don’t think I’m enough for you. And I don’t want you to do this big thing—give me this big part of yourself—just to turn around and realize you made a mistake.”

We sit in silence for a long time. From the town behind us, I hear pottery shatter against tile.

Someone shouts. A pair of gulls above us snaps at each other with a shriek.

Then Percy asks, “Who was your first?”

“What?”

He gives me a very deliberate look.

“Oh. That.”

“I can’t remember you ever having a first time; you were just swaggering and confident about it all of a sudden.”

35

 

“Yes, well, I’m very swaggery.”

He refuses to fall for the diversion, and instead digs his elbow into my side. “So?”

I sigh. “Amelia Wickham. Do you remember her? She was older than us—ran off to Gretna Green with Geoffrey Holland last year. Had a lot of freckles and always talked about how much she hated them.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think you told me about her.”

“Oh, I know I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t tell anybody. I don’t think she did either. It was so bloody awful. It was during a hunting party and it was in the woods and I was wet and itched for days after and we were both embarrassed and bad at it and my father had his dogs running around and I was petrified one of them was going to come across us and start baying.”

“Oh God.” Percy’s eyes widen. “Those hounds were monsters.”

“Thank you! Felicity loved them.”

“Why Amelia?”

I shrug. “She was there. And willing. And hated her freckles. And because my father was calling me a bitch every time I missed a shot or got knocked over by the recoil. God, I hate hunting. I hate guns. Men my size were not meant to be firing rifles. I’m far too small and delicate.”

“Yes, those are most certainly two words I would use to describe you.” He picks up a stone from the ground and tosses it over the edge of the cliff. We both wait for the splash, then he says,

“Who was the first lad, then?”

“Ah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “You don’t want to know that.”

36

 

“I do.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I know I won’t, but tell me anyway.”

I could lie. But that’s also something I’m trying to do less of. “Richard Peele.”

He sucks in his cheeks, then lets out what I think is meant to be a sigh but comes out more like a growl. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No!”

“I’m so sorry!”

“I hate Richard Peele.”

“WE HATE RICHARD PEELE!” I shout to the sea. He snorts, and I press my forehead into

his shoulder.

He presses his lips to the top of my head, then says, “Do you believe me when I tell you that I love you?”

“Sometimes.” I keep my face pressed against him. “Mostly. I try to.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Do you trust me?” I counter.

“Not always,” he replies, and the honesty catches me off guard. I had expected to have to tease that out of him. “And I didn’t last night. Not as much as I should have. But I’m going to work on that, if you will.”

“I do trust you, Perce,” I say. “I mostly don’t trust myself.”

“Well, we’re going to work on that too. You think I don’t know all this about you?” He cups his hands around my cheeks and raises my face to his. “You think I couldn’t see you falling apart 37

 

when we were talking to Scipio about London and what we do now? And you don’t think I was thinking, ‘Damn it, now Monty’s in his own head and we were supposed to have sex and that’s probably ruined?’ You don’t think every time I said how much it meant to be together I didn’t immediately regret it because you looked so panicked and I knew I was putting too much pressure on you and dear God Percy just don’t talk anymore but I couldn’t stop saying it?

Because that was all I could think about last night.”

“You fooled me.”

His hands fall away from my face. “I think you were worrying about yourself.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. But . . . I know you. And you know me. That’s why we’re here. And if you don’t want to do this yet, that’s fine. If you don’t want to ever do it, that’s fine too.”

“Well, that sounds very unfun.”

“But I mean it.” He puts his hand on my knee. “And maybe we can’t make it work. But

maybe we’re tough and we’re stupid and we’re going to try anyway.”

I look down at his hand and laugh without quite knowing why. “You deserve some sort of reward for putting up with me.”

“You’re my reward.”

“Shit reward I am.”

“Why do you think everyone needs some sort of recompense for being around you?” he says, his voice so gentle I almost start to cry. He wraps an arm around me, pressing me against his chest, and I can feel the light touch of his hand on the back of my neck, fingers stroking my hair.

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